The Consequences of Champagne and Murder

Chapter Two - One is Never Too Manly for Swooning

“Olivier, please stop laughing,” Renée said. “What about this situation is amusing?” 

We were in the library, myself sprawled out on the striped chaise with a wet cloth draped across my forehead, and Renée smoking a pipe behind Father’s marquetry writing desk. Though the powder blue curtains were drawn over the windows, a few slivers of sunlight managed to peek through and trail along the orange-waxed floors. I felt moments away from vomiting a second time.

“Everything,” I said, unfolding the cloth and placing it over my face. “Our brother—who has never broken a single rule in his entire life—snuck out of the party last night, stabbed Comte de Coligny’s coachman, and shoved him into the Seine. How do you not find that amusing?” 

“So, you believe what Henri told us?” 

Did I believe Étienne was a murderer? The same Étienne who carried Renée around on his shoulders until she turned eleven? The same Étienne who always assured me it was all right if my nerves made it so that I couldn’t do everything the other boys my age could? 

“Olivier?” Renée asked. I didn’t respond, and a second later she yelled, “Olivier!”

“What? I’m thinking.” 

“You have to think about whether or not you believe our brother killed someone?” 

I peeled the cloth away from my face and cracked an eye open. Renée’s feet were propped up on Father’s desk, pink skirts hiked to her knees. There was a gaping hole in the heel of her white stocking that definitely hadn’t been there the night before. 

“No. . . Yes,” I said. “I don’t know.” 

Renée made a face. “Of course you would say that.” 

“What do you mean of course I would say that?” 

My sister took a long drag on the pipe, tilted her head back, and blew a puff of smoke toward the ceiling. It swirled and danced between the scattered waves of light spilling across the gilded scrollwork like clouds billowing in a storm. “I mean that you never take the time to think things through in a rational manner.” 

I huffed, turning my body to face the rows of towering bookcases. “Wonderful. Glad you think so low of me.” 

“Well, it’s true!” she said. “You have barely left the house in years because of your condition”—I let out a snort at the word condition—“and perhaps that has altered the way you view things.” 

I sat up, ripping the cloth from my face and hurling it to the ground. It landed on the carpet with a soft plop. “This isn’t about me! Étienne was found with a dagger in his hand, Renée. Why else would he have been running through Le Marais with a dagger if—” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Merde. I don’t know. I don’t know.” 

An uncomfortable silence fell between us, thicker than clotted cream. I remained on the chaise, determined to lie there with my arm draped across my face all damn day if I had to, until Renée shuffled to my side and poked me in the ribs. 

When I turned to look at her, she held the pipe out to me in her shoddy version of a peace offering. It struck me then—as it often did whenever we were this close—how startlingly similar we looked. It wasn’t seeing my own gray eyes, mess of unruly black curls, or rosy-hued pale skin reflected back at me that was unnerving, however. It was knowing this was exactly what I would look like in stays and a female wig. 

“No, thank you.” I pushed her hand away. 

Renée lowered her head. The wooden pipe between her fingers smoldered, sending a fresh cloud of smoke into the air. “I’m sorry for what I said before. I know it’s difficult for you to leave the house, and I didn’t mean to insult you for it. I just can’t believe this happened.”